


By Bast

by LazyPerfectionist



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 22:07:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17232080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazyPerfectionist/pseuds/LazyPerfectionist





	1. Prologue

You had never thought yourself silly enough to truly believe in the goddess Bast like so many other native Wakandans. At least, not until the day she renamed you in a dream.

You had woken up from a slumber deep enough that no earthquake, typhoon or raging fire could arouse you. However, rather than find yourself in the familiar surroundings of your regular sleeping chamber, you came to your senses back nestled against the bark of a low-branching acacia tree. The soft, thin sheets you slept with despite the ever–present summer heat had been replaced by a heavy black covering surrounding you up to your neck, thick enough to be a shag carpet. A few moments passed as your daze wore off, and you shot up to your feet, screaming, when you realized the quivering you felt around you was a multitude of cats, purring against your skin, paws lightly traversing your lap and nudging you gently.

Not only did you not believe in Bast, you were never particularly fond of cats. How sacrilegious.

You had almost reached the treetop in your frantic climb to safety when a larger black cat, large enough to be a jaguar or panther, began to approach from the distance. You knew these jungle cats were great climbers, and your heart started to pound in your chest as quickly planned how best to escape a mauling. However, the jungle feline, appeared to be changing form as it approached.

The cats that had gotten very still, watching you climb the tree with a communal look approaching curiosity, now appeared to turn and file out towards the approaching figure. The figure was now upright, legs lengthening, shoulders broadening, torso shortening, and head molding into the silhouette of a faceless man.

Your muscles tensed and your jaw clenched as it continued to close the distance between you, but you found yourself frozen in place by some unidentifiable external force. The man, or form thereof, stopped only steps away from the tree now, and golden eyes seemed to pop into life on his previously blank visage to fixate on you. You stared transfixed in fear as a mouth split open into a toothy grin, accented with four golden canines, on the black canvas that was his face.

You opened your mouth to scream, but no words came out.

He held an arm out to you, and the rest of his face appeared to fill in recognizable human features – a nose, cheekbones, ears, hair. Warm-hued, brown skin replaced the pure darkness that painted the creature, and he finally appeared fully human.

 _Don’t be afraid,_ you heard a female voice from nowhere in particular whisper directly into your ears. Your eyes darted around you in confusion, and you heard a high-pitched chuckle.

_Truly, don’t be afraid, my darling. I want you to be prepared when he comes, Nkiru._

Who the fuck was Nkiru?

Before you could continue to question your sanity, you somehow had found yourself on your feet below the tree once again, now face to face with the giant cat turned man. He did not say a word, but looked at you quizzically, the earlier inviting smile now gone from his face.

_Take a good look at his face, Nkiru._

He suddenly gripped you by your chin, almost roughly, to look up at him. Those golden eyes that were so monstrous a few minutes ago, appearing out of nothingness, now were almost gentle on an otherwise overtly masculine face. Your fear and apprehension somehow dissipating, you took a few moments to study his facial features – his full, broad lips, his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw, the arch of his eyebrows, the pattern of his facial hair, his crown.

He let go of your face, and you cautiously raised your own hand to touch his cheek. To your surprise, his skin was softer, smoother to the touch than expected. He lay his own hand on top of yours, and your heart skipped a beat. You dropped your hand to your side immediately, your face growing hot. You stepped back, and now taking the time to take in the rest of him, realized he was completely naked. Embarrassed, you averted your eyes away from his manhood, almost tripping over a cat in the process of distancing yourself.

If this was some sort of weird sex dream, you decided you were very repressed and probably needed to lose it to someone real soon.

_Remember him, Nkiru. Protect him the best you can._

You took another quick glance at the man that had towered over your own quite athletic 5-foot-7 frame, wondering what threat could be posed to him that you could somehow overcome in his stead. He was now seated cross-legged in the grass, rendered slightly more decent by a black cat sitting in his lap. As he pet the animal, a look of peace and contentment washed over his face, and you could not help but smile for a few seconds, before you realized this whole situation was too weird, and grimaced.

Your name was not Nkiru. You were hearing voices. You didn’t know where you were. There was nothing around you for miles except grassy plains, black cats, this tree, and this random cat who had turned into a person before you.

“What the actual fuck kind of dream is this?” You whispered to yourself under your breath, if not just to know how real your voice would sound coming past your lips.

The airy, feminine voice chuckled softly in your ears again and you suddenly felt a wind pick up from around your ankles, swirling around your body to your shoulders, at which location it warmed and solidified, like the feeling of smooth arms holding you in an embrace. You felt a chill run up and down your spine, and froze.

_Don’t fret, my child. When you wake up, you will know this was real._

The man appeared to have gotten bored of petting the cat and rose to his feet. Before your eyes, he flashed a smile again before he reverted back to jungle cat form, much faster than he had transformed into human just a few moments ago. He circled around you once, and walked off into the distance, droves of smaller cats appearing to follow suit. You only now appeared to notice that the sky over the horizon was cloudless, and painted with hues of lavender and orange, accented with stars.

_This man could be a great leader, but his heart is filled with hatred and contempt. Teach him what Wakanda has to offer, Nkiru._

“My name isn’t Nkiru.” You said, to no one in particular, now alone on the plains. “I think whoever you are, you have the wrong person or the wrong dream.”

 _It is now_.

With those words, you woke up in a cold sweat, but unlike waking up suddenly from a nightmare, you arose with a serene calm you figured was akin to waking up from the dead. It occurred to you to check your pulse to make sure you had not actually died, and you were reassured by the slow  _thump-thump-thump_  of your heartbeat.

You were truly shocked by how little you were unfazed by so vivid a dream sequence. The face that the voice had commanded you to memorize was now firmly etched into your mind, and you were sure you remembered reading somewhere that your brain does not make up faces in dreams. But you were also just as sure that you had never seen that man before in your life.

You clutched your bed sheets closer to you now, reassured that they were no longer a literal swarm of felines, and looked out your window. It was still dark, and a quick glance at the holograph above your end table confirmed that it was still the middle of the night – 2ish am, the witching hour. A cool breeze was wafting through the opening and the fact that you couldn’t remember opening your window would have normally spooked you but you were, again, uncharacteristically peaceful. You didn’t bother to close it.

Instead, you lay back down on your side, and tried to sleep again. For a split second, you wondered if that could truly could have been a visitation from Bast. It certainly included all the motifs – the cats, the acacia tree, the plains, the atmosphere, the voice of a woman.

Then again, that was silly. Maybe you had spent too much time at the Herb Garden and let Papa Zuri convince you of Bast’s presence one too many times. You had just had a weird dream, and would forget about it soon enough.

And you did, until the first person who you spoke to the next day, your tutee turned play sister Shuri, referred to you as Kiki rather than your actual nickname just moments after you woke up. Then again, until you made your daily stop at the spiritual compound to say good morning to your mentor, and he smiled wide at you and welcomed you, Nkiru. As the characters in your life responded with puzzlement at the shock and confusion plastered on your face whenever your new name was called, you became panicked as you became more and more sure that Bast really had appeared to you in your slumber and given you directions.

That night, you prayed for instructions on what to do, but as expected, received no clear answer, no lyrical voice that seemed to be coming from somewhere both deep inside you and around you as you had that night.

You did decide to find out what the name Nkiru meant.  _The greatest will come,_ you read.  _A good future. Future goddess._  Maybe scratch that last one. You wouldn’t bother deluding yourself that far.

It was an old name originating from the Igbo tribe of West Africa. Diminutive of Nkiruka. This didn’t make any sense. You knew for a fact that you had come as a child refugee from a country called Cameroon, and the Igbo were primarily from Nigeria.

_The greatest will come._

The metamorphosing man suddenly came to mind. Would he be the greatest that is yet to come? The goddess had alluded to him become a powerful leader if not for his hatred.

Yet all you saw were a wide, sincere smile and beaming eyes.

You shook your head, as if to physically remove him from your thoughts, and sat down at your workbench to catch up on some clinical review articles you had neglected to read all day. It would take you a while to adjust to this new name, and now you wondered just how long it would take for that man, your assignment from Bast, to appear.

He was cute, after all. And how hard could showing him around Wakanda be? 


	2. Chapter 2

“For Bast’s sake, why are you guys so loud?!” Amina hissed loudly, all but drowned out by the music booming out of the overhead speakers almost directly above your table. You noticed out of the corner of your eye a couple turning to give you a dirty look and grimaced, raising your glass to your lips. Across from you, your other two girlfriends paused their raucous laughter for a split second before breaking out into more giggles.

“Please  _madam_ , can we not laugh?” Kali said, pushing back her long Senegalese twists, fallen to her face in all her excitement.

“What’s funny?” Amina pressed on your behalf. You personally were unbothered, but Amina, now recently being accepted as a late term Dora Milaje, was a lot more serious about keeping the going-ons of the palace under wraps. You, however, were content to let them talk as much as they wanted, and your friends usually did just that.

“Well…” Kali began, rolling her eyes.

“It’s just that after all the years of Ms. Scientific Revolution here yelling ‘ritual is antithetical to progress’, ‘ritual makes us slaves to habit’, or ‘ritual is overvalued in our culture’, now she’s in the temple bowing like she met her god personally.” Asha chimed in, her deep alcohol-induced blush apparent on her face, pale from albinism. She threw back the rest of her cup, and as she met eyes with Kali again, both immediately both burst out laughing.

You sighed, and Amina, seated by your side, frowned at the two but eased back into her seat, crossing her hands over her chest. She watched your expression with a sympathetic look. You raised an eyebrow back at her, wondering what she was so concerned about.

“What?”

“ _Did_  something happen?” she asked.

You shook your head no, but internally acknowledged that something truly had stirred inside you over the months since that night. Although your daily routines were the same, you now found yourself staring too long into the faces of strangers, and praying every night to a goddess you were sure for years never existed for an explanation. You even found yourself now enjoying the weekday mornings you spent tending the Herb Garden with your adoptive father, and had started to spend half-hours meditating in the spiritual compound on the weekends.

Working in the garden was initially a chore you loathed growing up, even more so than the one-on-one spirituality and divination classes Papa Zuri had put you through every weekday. You had all but escaped a true apprenticeship thanks to King T’Chaka, who found that you were better suited for the department of science and technology division, as it was before Shuri revamped it. (Later on, you had found out per Asha that part of the reason you were removed from some of the temple duties was because some of the older medicine women had begun to complain about your irreverence and thought you’d eventually set off some catastrophe if the gods got angry.)

Unfortunately for your adoptive father, the side effect of the dual appointment was your insistence on lobbying him for less discretionary use of the Herb. What he insisted was sacred, you insisted was simply mutated and could be mass produced for common use the same way vibranium was.

Now that you were pretty sure you had been visited by Bast, the Heart-Shaped Herb was no longer simply as a symbol of how the monarchy monopolized an organic resource that could be shared with many. You wanted to know what kings truly saw when they ingested it, and if it felt like anything in your own dream, apparition, whatever you called it.

Kali scoffed, rolling her eyes. “That’s what she says every time. Oh, definitely nothing happened, but all of a sudden, she’s respecting our religion.”

Amina gave her a dirty look, and Kali retorted with a cheeky grin, but her eyes revealed a faint nervous glimmer. Amina was at least six feet tall, with a large, muscular frame, and she looked intimidating with her originally full head of back length freeform locs now freshly shaven and ceremonially tattooed along the sides of her skull. Kali’s 5’1 waifish figure didn’t stand a chance if it truly came to blows.

“Are you really going to start taking the priestess work seriously?” Amina asked, eyebrows raised in curiosity, deciding to disregard Kali’s comment, which overheard could have actually had some serious implications. Religion and spirituality were paramount to most, if not all, of the townspeople, especially considering all the blessings Wakanda had presumably received from Bast. You had too often been protected by the fact that your father was the high priest, such that no one actually believed the rumors that his daughter was everything short of sacrilegious.

That, in addition to having immigrated from the outside, was a recipe for disaster.

You shrugged. “It’s probably too late to become a priestess, but I can at least take the time to learn the rituals for real. Who knows, maybe I could do the one for Prince T’Challa’s coronation.” This last part you shared without looking up, instead focusing on the ice cubes swirling in your glass as you shook it. You knew Amina, who was particularly smitten by the prince, would take the comment as a humble brag no matter how it was intended.

It would likely be a long time until the next ritual combat for king would begin, but the preparation could be good learning.

Amina’s eyes widened in surprise at your response, and clapped her hands together in shock.

“See how she disrespects us!” Kali snorted. “ _Maybe_  she’ll crown Prince T’Challa.”

She jumped to her feet, and grabbed Asha by the arm, who had long since tuned out the conversation and by the look of it was busy undressing several men in the club with her eyes. “I beg, let’s go dance. My song is playing and these men in here are… how you say,  _fiiiiiiiine_!”

Mad over You by RunTown was now coming through the speakers, and Kali and Asha went whining off into the crowd. Amina tapped your arm, and when she saw you weren’t about to go anywhere, smiled with understanding and ran off with the other two. You would join them in a few; it was the last night Amina would be able to move freely outside the palace anyway. The second they had disappeared into the crowd you locked eyes with a handsome stranger across the room who flashed a flirty half-smile at you. You smiled back politely and lowered your eyes, but as soon as you realized he was making his way over,  _Nope_  went your social anxiety and you threw back the last of your drink before making your escape to the restroom.

A haze was slowly starting to form in your mind as you sat in the bathroom stall, waiting out who-knows-what, until you caught the flash of your communication bead from the corner of your eye. It was a message from Shuri. You opened it.

 _My father is dead_.

 ___

In less than a week, all mourning rites had come to a close and Prince T’Challa had become King T’Challa in a triumphant show of power over the Jabari tribe. You were amazed at how intensely your entire country could grieve and turn around to form the explosion of vibrant joy that was Challenge Day. But then again, your Wakanda was magical and blessed, and the whole country knew it.

Today, you were escorted into the throne room by one of the King’s guard and presented before your new crowned king.  Shuddering as the entryway panels shut loudly behind you, you immediately bowed your head deeply to greet him before being walked closer to the throne. Amina, head now fully shaven showing her full induction into the Adored Ones, stood out proudly from the line of guards posted along the walls of the throne room, and shot you an excited look, eyes twinkling. Unfortunately, the general, Okoye, noticed her lose focus and shot her a disparaging look. Amina quickly faced forward with renewed stern expression. She wears that warrior face well, you thought to yourself.

You looked away from the guard and faced T’Challa, who regarded you warmly. The throne appeared to suit him naturally, fit him like a glove. Yet it was no true surprise as by your recollection, he had been regal from the very first day you met him as a child.

“Come on, you have known me for too long to be doing all of those formalities.” He said, chuckling softly, motioning almost embarrassedly for you to stand up properly as he walked closer to you. He seemed to tower above you more than usual, and you wondered if he had grown taller since the last time he had seen you or if his new title had encouraged him to stand a little more confidently.

“That’s probably true, my King. But customs are customs, right?” You responded, smiling.

“Ah, stop with the King nonsense, Nkiru.” His hand rested softly now on your shoulder, and you found your face growing hot in embarrassment. Not here, not in front of Amina, you thought.

“Would you rather I have your guard destroy me for showing disrespect?” you quipped back with a sassy grin, eyeing Okoye whose lips betrayed a small smirk. You made a dramatic show of raising your hands in surrender, but mostly to shrug his hand off you, and he sighed, amused but exasperated.

You weren’t being facetious, this truly was more comfortable for you. The fact of the matter was that for some unknown reason, you had always felt some emotional distance from him. T’Challa was always Shuri’s older brother to you, and regardless of how aware you were that he was handsome, intelligent and sweet, you had been relatively immune to whatever unconscious charm he had on most girls in his vicinity. Sometimes you suspected that T’Challa realized this and would put the charisma on overdrive. Most likely he just enjoyed being the most eligible bachelor in Wakanda.

Too bad for him that most everyone in the capital knew how he felt about Nakia, princess of River tribe, who had come back from a posting as a War Dog to witness his coronation. You had even overheard a few girls in coffeeshops lamenting his relationship and hoping he had a long-lost brother or cousin or anyone else they could set their affections on.

There was a pause, and for a moment you began to worry about the true reason you had been called so formally. Then you remembered a rumor circulating the gardeners regarding T’Challa storming out of the spiritual compound after talking to Zuri a couple days ago. If this had anything to do with that you knew nothing, and hoped to continue being ignorant.

T’Challa suddenly broke the silence, clearing his throat softly.

“I just wanted to formally thank you for taking care of Shuri that night,” he began. “When…,” he paused for a moment, knowing the next words would be painful. “When my father died, I wasn’t able to be there for her and my mother, and I appreciated knowing that you would be there as her friend to console her.” He smiled again, with the slightest twinge of sadness this time.

“It was my pleasure, Kun-, I mean T’Challa,” you replied. He looked almost relieved that you’d stopped calling him king. Satisfied, he placed his hands behind his back and walked whimsically back to his seat. “I will add that I was pleased to see you at the ritual, even partaking in it.” He chuckled, settling back into his throne. “Imagine my surprise when I woke up from the ancestral plane to see you among those watching me.”

You cocked your head to the side in confusion.

“I’m just saying it was nice, that’s all.” He mused. Okoye now walked up beside you, and declared to the king that there would be an impromptu strategic meeting in a few moments. With that, you prepared to bow out quietly. However, just as you began to make your way towards the exit, a parade of elders seemed to spill into the room, almost spinning you a full 360 as their attendants rushed in and lined the walls.

“What is the meaning of all this?” Nakia’s father, the River tribe elder, exclaimed as he entered the room. Flamboyant as he was, his attendants quickly rushed to place a chair beneath him and he eased into it without looking back, crossing his legs as he sat down. “I will have you know that I, too, have plans and cannot be rushed in to talk about any foolish man that wanders onto our territory.”

T’Challa’s jaw tensed, but he said nothing, allowing the growing commotion to build.

The Merchant tribe elder sucked her teeth as she was accompanied into the room by her own attendants, hands behind her back. The Queen Mother and Shuri came in together, muttering quietly under their breath.

As quickly as the rest of the elders entered the room and were seated, their attendants scurried out of the room. Whatever was going on was serious and private, you guessed. A fan of minding your own business, you attempted the same…

Until you heard the voice again, and your heart skipped a beat as a wave of panic crashed over you.

_Stay a little longer._

Your legs were frozen in place before the door, but your interior felt like fire and flames and thunder. Something big was about to happen. The grumble and brouhaha of the assembly had quieted into a low hush and you could feel eyes on you as your back as you, the intruder, stood motionless before the doors to the assembly. But no one said a word. And if they did, you paid them no mind.

You soon could hear a multitude of footsteps on the other side of the entryway, mirroring your own fast heartbeat. You held your breath.

The doors slid open, and you saw him, the literal man of your dreams, in the flesh for the first time. As you matched this new stranger’s features to your recollection, time might as well have stood still. You felt the same cool wind without a source from so long ago blow past you, and then a new wash of that eerie calm. Your heartbeat stabilized, your breathing slowed, your muscles relaxed.

The stranger’s arms were shackled behind him, but those handcuffs may as well have been a fashion accessory. He held his head high, walking with a confident swagger into T’Challa’s presence as if he were giving the Border tribesmen a tour of his very own home. His eyes quickly surveyed the room around you, taking it in and then rested on you.

He gave you the same quizzical look you’d seen before. But just as quickly as it had appeared, it was replaced by a smirk.

“You cute and all, but uh, you gon move out of the way so I can talk to ya King?” he said, voice low, smooth and flat with disinterest.

Like an incantation, your legs seem to unstick from the center of the room, and you ran out of the throne, overcome with a feeling between offense and minor humiliation, to let him do his damage.

Bast would have to help you out with this one.


	3. Chapter 3

You had to see your father, and tell him everything. As long as you could figure out what  _everything_ was. You still had no idea what was going on.

What you were alarmingly sure of was that you had finally laid eyes on that man. That image had finally materialized into something tangible - a real life, breathing,  _rude as shit_ person. And sort of foreign criminal, no less. You guessed he was probably an American – you and Shuri had watched enough movies and Vine videos to pick up different variations of English speech. He certainly reeked of the entitlement of a true born and bred American. In only a couple of words, this stranger had managed to make your blood boil in a way you had never thought possible.

You had to admit that you had set yourself up for embarrassment. Why the hell were you intruding in some outlaw’s audience with the King, anyway? What could you even say? That you had been spiritually compelled to stand in that exact spot to face that stranger as he entered? Better to keep your mouth shut instead. Hopefully, you could come up with an excuse in time. You knew the Queen Mother had a sassy rebuke saved up just for you. But that was another issue.

Right now, it was evident that something was being set in motion after many months. It was time to talk to your father. You checked the time on your bracelet, and figured you could intercept him at Mujaji Meadow.

* * *

 

Established in honor of the goddess of sustenance Mujaji, the western courtyard was a huge tropical fruit orchard that doubled as a safe space of reflection for many of the members of or serving the royal court. It was a sort of sanctuary for the senses, featuring seemingly endless rows of mango, papaya, avocado and citrus fruit trees and filled with the quiet, cheerful chirp of canaries from an overhead aviary. A few feet away, you spotted your father with two baskets at his feet, filled to the brim with nearly ripe fruit for the children that would visit the temple that week.

“Good afternoon, Baba.” You balanced one of the baskets on your head. “Are you well?”

He picked up the other, smiling. “As good as I can be, thank the gods. How are you,  _intombi_?” he asked, as the two of you walked the softly trodden path through the trees.

“Just fine, Baba,” you replied. You were betrayed by a mere split second of hesitation and he slowed his step to a halt to give you a knowing look.

“I was not born yesterday.”

You gave him a sickeningly sweet smile, and he sighed exasperatedly.

“I know that look, Nkiru.” He said. “You have something to say to me. What is on your mind?”

Your smile vanished and your lips pulled into a grimace. Quickly, you led him to a small wicker bench facing a small fountain in the center of the orchard for both of you to sit down, anticipating it would take a minute to explain. Zuri peeled an orange and offered you half, but you were unable to eat, your stomach now doing somersaults as you realized you would have to explain the inner turmoil you had nursed for all these months. In a way that made sense, no less.

Some part of you felt like your father already knew why you had become strange and had been patiently waiting for you to finally share. Another part of you was sure that was just wishful thinking. Either way, it was now or never.

You took a few minutes and let out a deep sigh.

“I had a dream,” you began. Zuri looked at you attentively, his silence coaxing you to continue. “It was many months ago, but I dreamt of cats, and I heard a voice. A woman’s voice…. And I saw a man I had never seen before.”

You paused, waiting for him to ask for clarification. He continued to eat his orange wordlessly, and you continued to focus on the babble of the fountain, attempting to rearrange your thoughts into a coherent story.

“The man first appeared like a huge black panther before he turned human. He never really said anything. He just watched.” You paused. “He smiled.” A gentle warmth crept up your cheeks as you remembered his hand on your face, then an angry heat rushed over as you remembered his real life counterpart’s arrogant smirk, just a few moments ago.

“What did the voice say?” Zuri asked, his voice with a sudden edge foreign to you. You tried to read his face for concern, but he continued to stare straight ahead, but somehow unfocused at the same time.

“It told me to protect him.”

He didn’t say another word, and you both sat in silence. You were suddenly embarrassed that you had even said anything, as the words hung in the air.

He stood up abruptly. “Let’s go.”

You found your face growing hot again as you watched your father walk off without so much as a word. This was not what you’re expecting.

You ran to catch up to him, now markedly upset.

“Baba, did you hear what I said?”

He stopped, and turned to look at you. “I heard you.”

“And you’re not going to say anything?” Where was the advice? Where was the spiritual guidance? You felt somehow cheated. Did he not care?

“Are you concerned you dreamt about a man?” he asked, not bothering to look back at you as he continued to march off. You were now almost at a trot to catch up with him – the old man walked rather quickly – and a mango rolled off the basket still balanced on your head, but you didn’t stop to pick him up, far too upset you were being ignored.

“Yes, I am concerned!” Your voice unintentionally rose with frustration.

He stopped, turned abruptly and gave you a stern, almost harsh, look.

“Is that man T’Challa?”

The question caught you off guard enough that you froze. He shook his head, turning away from you again, his voice now rising as well. “The king is off limits!”

“What? I’m not interested in the king!” You protested. Zuri did not reply and you found yourself getting more and more agitated, as you both reentered the palace.

“Baba, the man I am talking about! I saw him today! He requested an audience with T’Challa. He’s an outsider!”

The shift in brightness between the orchard and the inner palace was blinding enough that you didn’t notice your friend Amina had been watching from the entrance, hoping to get a word with you. Your eyes were only on Zuri, who could be as stubborn as a goat when he no longer wanted to hear what you had to say. He reached his hand out for your basket, signifying that he was done with you for the day, and wouldn’t allow you to follow him. You looked him in the eyes fiercely, hoping to transmit all your frustration at not being listened to.

“Anyone. But not the King.” He repeated low, now keenly aware of his surroundings, leaning in towards you as you passed him the fruit.

“I. Don’t. Want. The. King.” You repeated through your teeth.

“Keep him out of your dreams.” He said, almost seething, and that was his last word as he left. You were now fuming. Your father was literally impossible, and you were almost certain he hadn’t heard a damn word you said.

You watched him in shock and anger for a few moments, then jumped, startled as you felt a hand on your shoulder. When you saw that it was Amina, you let out a deep sigh.

“I’m sorry.” She said, smiling weakly.

“How much of that did you hear?”

She wouldn’t tell you that she heard you say you weren’t interested in T’Challa. Instead, she shrugged.

“Seemed like regular difficult father stuff to me.” She replied. You shook your head in defeat.

“You’re right.” Amina gave you one of her classic reassuring smiles, and you felt your blood pressure fall into a safe, life-sustaining range. But she had come for a reason.

“So what happened in there earlier?” Amina asked.

 _Here we go…_  you thought. Even though she was one of your best friends, it probably wasn’t worth it to burden her with the concern that you might actually be going crazy.

“I don’t know. I was just kind of curious I guess.” Even without looking at her, you knew Amina was giving you the side-eye.

“You almost looked like you knew him.” She said in that soft, yet firm way of hers. You laughed, perhaps a bit too nervously, and definitely inappropriately.

“That’s ridiculous.” You responded, but before you could even begin to change the subject, your friend took you by the arm gently. In seconds, you and her were both flying down a long, poorly lit, flight of steps.

“What the hell? Where are we going?” Your tone had heightened with confusion.

She didn’t respond, and her grip had tightened enough for you to know she wasn’t letting you go. It was a little concerning to say the least, but you trusted her even if she was acting strange. Amina was your best friend, after all.

You both stepped into an elevator and she let go of your arm as the doors closed. Before she opened her mouth to explain, it had finally occurred to you what was going on.

She was taking you down to the Captives Quarters, she said. You suddenly became so angry, you shook visibly.

“So everyone just thinks I’m just full of shit today?!” you said, angrily. She didn’t bother looking down at you and you waved your hands furiously in her face.

“Can you stop that ‘I’m unbothered because I’m a mighty Dora’ crap please? It’s been like, what, a week since you were inducted?” You sneered. That jab seemed to reach her, and she whipped around to stare you down with irritation.

“Look, I don’t know what the fuck is going on but I was ordered to bring you down here and figure out why the hell you stood staring at this man like your whole world was crumbling.”

Your heart was now pounding in your chest and your face grew hot once more. Amina’s lips drew into something between a smirk and a sneer.

“See. Stranger, my ass.” She crossed her arms, and leaned her back against the elevator. She let out a sigh. “This elevator ride is like a full ten minutes. Just tell me what’s going on now and we can figure out a way to get the order off your back.”

A few minutes of silence passed, and you threw your hands up in frustration and leaned on the wall against her. “It’s not like you’ll believe me.” You muttered, softly.

“Try me.”

You did and she doubled over, laughing so hard she was crying for a full five minutes.

“Yeah, no one’s going to believe that.” She finally said seriously, as soon as she collected herself. You shot her a  _No shit_  look, and she grinned, a snarky twinkle in her eyes. “And, love the name change is honestly the craziest, most unnecessary part of this story. At least leave that nonsense out, when you share this story again,” she added.

You rolled your eyes, deciding you no longer had the time to bother defending your truth.

“Anyway, let’s go meet this bastard again.”

The elevator doors finally opened after what seemed like an eternity and the two of you arrived to another secured gate. Amina pulled a Kimoyo Card from her breastplate and swiped it haphazardly across the opacified glass. It morphed into transparency, and you saw him laid comfortably, with one knee up bent towards the sky, on a small cot by the corner. His face was turned to the wall, but you could see the muscles of his arm tense for a split second. He had sensed our presence.

Yet he wasn’t fazed by it. He flipped over to his other side to face you, head on his hands like he was about to drift off to sleep any moment and shot the two of you a smirk.

“Oh, y’all visiting?” he taunted the both of you. Amina frowned and held tighter onto her staff, knuckles whitening. She was clearly threatened by him and that fact unsettled you. She was bolder than any woman you knew – well, short of Okoye, anyway.

Mischievous look unwavering, those coffee brown, not golden, eyes descended on you again. He sauntered up to the barrier, as though even this jail cell had become his own. Although you both knew the boundary between you was indestructible, Amina reflexively stood partway between you to, her weapon now angled closer to horizontal in case she needed to strike. Emboldened by her defensive body language, the prisoner placed both his hands on the glass, leaning his weight on it with an almost comical half-smirk on his face.

“’Sup babygirl?”

You were all but furious that this irreverent joker was still making your heart skip a beat.

“I knew you’d eventually come by. Ain’t like I’ve never seen that thirsty look in your eye before.” He started to chuckle, but Amina quickly interrupted him.

“Shut the fuck up and we’ll do the talking.” She almost growled, now completely standing in between you two.

He cocked his head back in exaggerated shock and disbelief, then raised his hands up in mock disbelief. “Damn, okay bitch. You hella aggressive for what though? Ain’t T’Challa let none of you bitches get laid?” he joked, glancing at you for a split second, almost as if for approval. You, on the other hand, were too shocked to laugh. Here was a man, miles upon miles underground, in a foreign land, immediately cuffed and thrown into a jail cell, and now face-to-face with a warrior armed with tools more powerful than any weapons he’d ever seen in his miserable life before.

And jokes? He was making jokes? No, he had to be scared shitless, you told yourself. This was either some ridiculous coping mechanism left over from some early childhood trauma, or he was significantly more dangerous than you thought.

“If you think I won’t hesitate to batter every single living demon out of you before you challenge the King, you are oh so very wrong.” Amina snarled, to the man with a now entertained look on his face. “ _Isidenge_.” She muttered under her breath, relaxing her staff to vertical beside her. This man thrived on discomfort and she simply wasn’t going to let him have it. She regained her position beside you once more and motioned for you to speak to him.

You were terrified yourself, but your voice came out smooth and firmly. Holding his gaze, one that almost seemed to have softened as he watched you despite Amina’s harsh words, you asked him who he was.

“You know who I am.” He said with an uncharacteristic softness, catching you off guard. As he spoke, you spotted his golden canines, all four, glinting softly in the dim light.

You could feel Amina’s eyes burning into your side in confusion, and shook your head quickly.

“No, I have absolutely no idea who you are. If you recall,  _sir,_  I wasn’t exactly there while you spoke to T’- the King. How would I know who you are when this is the first time you’ve ever set foot on our soil?”

He sighed, for once his whole body not swelling with overconfidence. He scratched his head, and then shoved his hands into the pockets of his military issue pants, rolling his shoulders back. “For real though, I wonder what the fuck been going on, too. But I’ve seen you before. ‘Bout a few months back.”

Your eyebrows raised in disbelief, but he kept talking. For once, he didn’t hold your gaze steadily enough to intimidate, and instead faced the ground, like he was all too aware what was about to come out of his mouth was ridiculous.

“Yeah, I’ve definitely seen you before, in this place that looked straight out of some shaman voodoo shit. I don’t even know how I got there, and some invisible bitch kept giggling some incoherent shit in my ears. Then I saw you off beneath that cliché-ass African folktale tree.”

Amina scoffed at that last remark, but he ignored her. “You were just sitting there, meditating or something. You told your name was…” Your birth name fell off his lips and your mind was sent into a frenzy.

He knew – this stranger, he knew the birth name that had somehow been forgotten, erased from existence forever, in one night.

“Ah-ah, this fool! That’s not even-“

“Yes, it is.” You said softly, facing Amina sternly. Amina frowned, and then shook her head.

“What? This doesn’t make any sense?!” Amina interjected, now having enough of this ridiculous story. “What could he possibly mean he’s seen you before?” She actually looked as frantic as you were still, considering the implications of your story and his revelation. She placed her hands on your shoulders, shaking you into responsiveness. You were suddenly frozen at the thought that maybe you weren’t the only one who had had those dreams, and that this man had shared them with you.

“I…” Your mouth quivered, at a loss for words. He had none for you, and stared back at you with only a hint of confusion. The glass opacified suddenly enough that you gasped, and you turned to see Amina with a horrified look on her face.

“We have to go.” She said. You didn’t respond.

“This girl! Oh my goodness!” she yelled in frustration. “This man challenged the King!” She was now pacing back and forth, her hands clasped over her shaved head. “This man, this stranger, this foreigner came in here, said he was son of Prince N’Jobu, accused late King T’Chaka of murder, and demanded the throne!”

Your eyes widened in shock, and again words failed you – but not her.

“Do you know exactly how incriminating this is?” She glanced at you fiercely, and shook you gently, annoyed at your silence. “Hello?? You were supposed to just say something like ‘No, I have never met you in my life’ and we were all supposed to go home, and everyone was going to attribute your weird behavior to Bast-knows-what, but now instead you come and say some incriminating nonsense and you know when that glass is see-through - “ she pointed frantically at the barrier, now a one-way mirror, now conveniently soundproof, “Every single word gets recorded, so now I can’t even lie for you and I just- “

Tears were welling up in her eyes in panic, and you couldn’t tell if it was your own panic or the empath in you that was causing your own eyes to sting. Amina wrapped her arms around your shoulders and pressed her forehead to yours.

“I don’t think I can protect you.” She whispered, tears now fully rolling down her cheeks.

“Is it this bad? Am I in that much trouble already?” You whispered back, just inches apart.

“Okoye suspects someone from the outside let him in.” she said, pulling back from you, hands placed on your face.

You gave her a crazed look. “And all they could come up with is me? Just because I stood too long in the throne room as he came in?”

“They were just covering their bases, Nkiru. It’s not every day that someone comes in and shakes up the palace this way. They sent me to get you because they thought you were a long shot…. Shit, the challenge is tomorrow.”

You gulped.

“What do I do? What happens next?” you said, voice small and cracking.

“If he loses, you’ll be interrogated by the Dora right after he is thrown back in holding.” She said, and your stomach turned. Your next utterance should never have been your next utterance, given the circumstances, but it came out anyway.

“What if he wins?”

Amina recoiled as though she had been slapped, and her hands dropped to her sides.

“I guess in that case… he gets to decide what happens next.”


	4. Chapter 4

You hadn’t slept more than a few moments the entire night, between shooting furtive glances at your bedroom door, and drawing your blankets so tight over your head that asphyxiation would probably get to you first before any of the Dora did. You shot up at the crack of dawn, feeling almost electrified, and frankly surprised you had made it till morning without the King’s guard breaking down your door.

Today was challenge day. Amina had advised you to act as usual, and to go fulfill your duties as usual at the spiritual compound but you were nervous. You weren’t sure if word of your would-be treason had gotten to your father yet, and you were even more embarrassed to face him, now that you had not only ended on bad terms, but were potentially in some deep mess.

Your Kimoyo beads blinked, alerting you to a message from Shuri.

_I’ll see you at the falls! Hopefully this nonsense is over quickly and you can come back to the lab with me. I have some amazing stuff to show you!_

You smiled, appreciating her unbothered, cheerful approach to everything. At least she didn’t seem to think you were suspect. Reassured that you weren’t already public enemy #1, you bathed and dressed for the day. The apprentice shaman robes, a few hues lighter than the deep violet of the elder robes, hung heavier on your shoulders than you expected over your plain white sheath dress, reminiscent of a suit of armor. You hadn’t expected to deliver on your promise of serving in a ritual this early, but here you were. You wrapped a long necklace of cowrie shells around your left forearm five times for good luck and set out to Warrior Falls.

* * *

 

Something was about to go horribly wrong, and you knew you weren’t the only one who could sense it in the brisk mountain air. Everything about this particular moment was uncharacteristic of a Wakandan morning. The extra nip in the air, the clouds swirling angrily overhead appearing to threaten rain and thunder, the way the audience, reduced to a small, exclusive number, seemed to be watching with bated breath… It was all wrong, all much too ominous.

The man who called himself N’Jadaka, son of N’Jobu, arrived onto the arena, and all too quickly, it was clear that this would not be an ordinary battle.

It wasn’t just that today he looked even more impressive in stature – hardened by whatever had also spurned that constant contemptuous look on his face – but the way his square shoulders remained relaxed in the face of mortal combat in the way only a man who had continuously looked death in the face could. He reeked of both hate and confidence. As you stood between Zuri and one of the king’s guards, eyes focused unwaveringly on the stranger, you began to wonder why T’Challa had accepted his challenge.

“This is your last chance.” T’Challa warned, tone level and flat. “Throw down your weapons, and we can handle this another way.” Always calm and collected, you could just barely hear a faint echo of exasperation in his voice.

His opponent smirked as he removed the armored vest covering his chest. “I’ve lived my entire life for this moment,” he declared, revealing rows and rows of small scars patterning his whole upper body underneath his clothing. As he described the source of all those marks on his skin, your stomach turned, wondering how someone could have such sheer disrespect for life. There had to be several hundreds, maybe a thousand lives, each reduced to a few squared centimeters of purchase on his body.

He is the last person in the world who needs protecting, you thought. He was the danger.

Unfazed, T’Challa readied himself for the assault as N’Jadaka drew his weapons. Your body tensed up at the clang of steel hitting steel as N’Jadaka landed the first strike. The struggle had only been going on for a few minutes, both parties evenly matched, but it felt like it drew out for hours, as the notables of the country watched intently.

Suddenly, T’Challa swept the stranger off his feet. The king pointed his spear down to him, with a moment’s hesitation, as though suggesting he yield rather than be destroyed on the spot.

Stunned only momentarily, N’Jadaka quickly got to his feet, and with renewed fury, began to hack and slash indiscriminately, appearing to conjure additional power with every strike. T’Challa now appeared to be pushed back further and further by the onslaught, despite having the upper hand just moments ago.

You could sense T’Challa was holding back, but why?

This was not looking good. The air itself seemed to thicken with the audience’s rising tension. A sudden chill ran through your spine and you suddenly needed something to hold, and settled on wrapping your robes tighter around yourself. The only question running through your mind repeatedly, was “could T’Challa lose?”

Suddenly, your cowry shell necklaces snapped, and you attempted to catch the ends in your palms before it unraveled. A few cowries slipped through your fingers to the wet ground - four of them total, all open-mouthed. You gasped, as you realized the Gods and ancestors had just answered your question with a resounding, enthusiastic ‘Yes’.

When you looked up, T’Challa had been brought to his knees, and you averted your eyes quickly, trembling.

Shuri’s shrill scream broke the onlookers’ silence, pleading him to snap out of whatever daze he was in. T’Challa, however, rose only to be pierced in the abdomen, and dropped again to his knees. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

No one was prepared for this.

T’Challa was hit hard once more in the face, and now lay face down in the water. You opened your mouth to scream, but any sound you made was drowned out by the cries of the royal women, and the deafening sound of your own blood pounding in your eardrums.

Fury ablaze in this soon-to-be murderer’s eyes, N’Jadaka lifted his weapon overhead to strike the final blow. That was when your father did the unthinkable - he intervened.

In a swift motion, Zuri disarmed the assailant, tapping his weapon to the ground with his spear. N’Jadaka was as stunned by the action as the crowd, who began to murmur sounds of shock and disapproval.

 _Go now_ , you heard  _her_  voice like trickling water down your spine. Bast didn’t have to tell you twice – you had already began to run towards the fight to protect your father from this madman.

But Zuri’s next words came out too quickly. “I am the cause of your father’s death. Not him. Take me instead.” He pleaded. And before you could process this new development, your father’s lifeless body slumped to the shallow water with a soft splash. Such a soft diminutive sound, but so deafening.

You suddenly couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

You pounced.

* * *

 

“Damn, and niggas in the hood really be dying from  _gunshot wounds_?”

Half exclamation, half whisper - you knew intuitively you should have been able to recognize that voice, but no one came to mind. A silence hung in the air, and you could sense that person was not the only person in whatever space you currently existed in. You could feel a quiet tension – but otherwise, the rest of your sensorium was shot.

Was this what it was like to be dead?

You may have laid there in silence for another few seconds, or another few years. Then suddenly, it seemed as if a gear in your core had started turning, and warmth spread through your being. Your senses were returning to you, slowly, surely, but your eyes wouldn’t open. You gained feeling in your extremities – your toes first, then your fingers. Soon you could feel the muscles in your legs twitch, your dry, dry throat gasp for air and your chest pound heavily.

Your eyes still wouldn’t open. The reticular activating system is a trip.

“Why she still like that?” A hand gripped tightly at your left shoulder, and you winced in pain. Once the stimulus was gone, you could feel your back, bare against a hard, cool surface.

“She’s breathing so wake her ass up. I ain’t got all day.”

A quiet voice popped up, challenging the first. A young woman whose voice you did not recognize either.

“S-Sir… I’m sorry, I know it is taking a while but we do have to wake her up slowly so as to ensure that she keeps her cognitive faculties when she wakes up. We have found that-“

“I ain’t ask for all them details. Just wake her the fuck up, I got places to be.”

Fingers snapped impatiently, and you mustered all your strength to try to force your eyes open again. Unsuccessfully.

“Wake her the fuck up!” the voice bellowed, and in seconds, a rapid, piercing electric shock tore throughout your whole body.  You shot up like a board, diaphoretic, screaming and writhing in anguish for what seemed like an eternity, gripping the sides of the narrow examination table you had been laid so tightly you felt your fingers go numb again. When your eyes had finally refocused before you, panting heavily, you were face to face with the man who had killed your father.

That nightmarish smirk spread across his handsome face again, and he leaned over you, gripping the sides of your examination table as well so that you were eye to eye. You reflexively drew back into fetal position, realizing with a shock your dress and robes were gone, and all that covered you were your undergarments, telemetry stickers, and a small abdominal binder, tightly wound below your ribcage.

You covered your abdomen with your arms tightly, and looked at him, eyes wide with fear. You had no idea why you were in an operating room, but wouldn’t put it past this psychopath to have just harvested your organs. As if he could read your mind, he laughed.

“Damn, relax. I ain’t that crazy.”

You saw your father fall to the ground in front of him once. Then twice. A third time.

Your eyes glazed over and you began to shake violently. N’Jadaka’s expression turned blank and he looked towards a petite woman in the corner, likely the one who had resuscitated you, and she almost let out a squeal before reaching into a small warmer to grab blankets. She wrapped them around you gently, and hurried back to her seat, pretending to look interestedly at your vitals on a small screen above your head.

You continued to stare straight ahead and didn’t speak. He almost looked frustrated.

“It was a reflex, honestly.”

You were suddenly ablaze with fury, but remained very still. The monitor started to beep loudly in concern as you went into sympathetic overdrive.  _A reflex? Murdering my father was an afterthought to you?_

“Where is my father?” you seethed. He genuinely looked confused. You repeated your words through your teeth, and he mimed scratching his head. If he hadn’t been half-naked save for a monstrosity of dark fur coat, you would have grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and spit in his face.

“You mean-” You wouldn’t let him finish his sentence.

“You killed my father!” You spat. “I saw you!  We all did! The King will have you executed for what you’ve done! Just wait!” Like a madwoman, you shook, you trembled, now full on wailing and sobbing.

He looked again at the woman in the corner whose face had grown downcast. When he looked back at you, his golden teeth gleamed again to match the glint in his eyes.

“Guess what, babe? I am the king.”


	5. Chapter 5

_I am the King_.

Those words, so casually said, hung lazily in the air like cheap helium balloons.

Suddenly it all made sense. The dream, the voice, the renaming, the sudden subversion of the royal family courtesy of an extended family member from a distant land, your father dying in a single moment. There was only one explanation.

You were loony as hell.

And just like someone who was loony as hell, you drew in a breath and cackled at the top of your lungs. Loud, maniacally, until your throat hurt, until tears rolled down your cheeks.

Like someone who had to laugh to keep from falling apart.

N’Jadaka, clearly disarmed, shot a furious look at the other woman in the room who seemed to be attempting to compress her already small figure to invisibility, pushing further and further into the corner of the room.

“Fix this.  _Immediately._ ” He growled, as he got up and walked promptly out of the room. Through your snickers, you watched him shove his hands down his pockets, his broad back hunched over as he stormed out of sight. You could tell he was so upset that if not for the fact that almost all doors in any large Wakandan establishment were automatic, he would have slammed the one before him hard enough to shatter it. For some reason, this fact alone almost made you double over again with pure hilarity, but when you bent over, a sudden jolt of pain ran through your abdomen right under your bandage, making you inhale sharply.

And then you started to cry.

The lady finally decided it safe enough to approach you, and placed a hand on your back, rubbing it in slow, small circles. You normally were not a fan of contact from strangers, but her gentle touch was oddly comfortable and your body relaxed as you wept silently for what felt like an eternity. When you eventually sobered up and looked up to her with swollen, red-tinged eyes, she smiled softly but wearily.

“Do you know where you are right now?” she asked. You shook your head no, but given the architecture, you guessed you probably were somewhere in the palace. There were so many extra hallways, entire wings tucked away that you could have never had access to, being only an associate of the royal family.

She sat at the foot of your bed and folded her hands in her lap. “You were hurt very badly just this morning, and we brought you here to treat you.” Her words came clearly and well-enunciated, revealing her concern for the integrity of your mental state. But you knew that was silly, because you were perfectly stable. Definitely entirely delusional, but stably so.

You nodded your head, encouraging her to continue.

“Do you remember what happened before you lost consciousness?”

Then you saw your father falling, falling, falling.

“Baba…” Your tears welled up again in your eyes, but you were tired of crying. She placed her hand on yours and squeezed it.

“Yes, and I’m sincerely sorry for your loss. Do you remember anything that happened after that?” You shook your head no.

“You attacked the man who was just here a little while ago.”

“Good.” You responded flatly. If you were going to act on instinct, it was reassuring to know you had good ones. You could see a phantom of a grimace on her face, and you sighed loudly in exasperation.

“What happened to me then? Just give it to me straight.” You didn’t mean to be short, but you were losing patience quickly. Yes, you had just cried, then laughed, then cried again, and were the definition of emotional lability, but you weren’t  _that_ unstable. She didn’t have to spoon-feed information to you like a child.

She gave you a wary look, and you gave her an encouraging nod. “I’m fine. In a minute or less, please give me all the details. I’m fairly educated, I’ll understand.”

She hesitated again, closed her eyes briefly as if to reconcile herself to saying what she was about to say, and then pointed to your bandage. “Okay well, here’s the synopsis. You were impaled in the left upper abdomen.” You grimaced, placing your hand on your belly. Now that you had positioned yourself better, you only felt an occasional throb of pain. Oh, how you loved Wakandan medicine.

“Given that it was in the middle of ritual combat, no one was allowed to provide medical services, and you bled pretty significantly. However, you were lucky because the rest of the battle appears to have been,” the woman who was likely your doctor cleared her throat slightly, “short-lived, and… you were spared.”

You scoffed. “I was spared?” But you knew better than anyone that ritual combat was a concede-or-die ordeal for anyone involved, and that those who interfered were punished by death by the Dora. Sometimes even on the spot. A chill ran down your spine, and your doctor knew by your expression that you didn’t need any further explanation on that aspect.

“We repaired lacerations to your stomach, spleen and a portion of your small bowel, which is why you probably still feel some pain if you move too quickly, and you’ll have a touch of nausea likely later tonight. But you will be okay.” She said that last part confidently, squeezing your hand again, and you thanked her politely.

“We’d like you to stay for one night, just so we can watch you. We can provide you a more comfortable bed now that you’re awake, some entertainment and food in a few hours once we’re sure you can handle it. Your pain should be well controlled as long as you don’t-“ She paused again, with a small frown, probably thinking of your wild laughter from before. “Exacerbate it. We also have some medication to keep you settled from those strong emotions… especially since you’ve been through a lot. Unfortunately, we can’t allow you any visitors without approval, since this facility is private.”

Visitors. Your father was dead. You had no other family now. You’d lost two families now. Who would come see you?

Amina, Shuri, T’Challa –

T’Challa. Concede or die was the outcome of ritual combat. And N’Jadaka didn’t seem like the type to take prisoners.

 _No, no, no_. You immediately pushed the thought out of your head and settled on the fact that you were batshit crazy. You were going to wake up and find out all of this was a drawn-out nightmare, maybe a psychotic break, and then you’d be fine again and see your father and keep living the life you’d always been living, before any of this Bast nonsense.

“Let me show you to your room, honey.” The doctor helped you to your feet, and led you out of the procedure suite.

________

It didn’t exactly hurt to walk, but you were markedly unsteady on your feet the entire way to your recovery room - if that’s what one could call it. It was spacious and meticulously sanitized, or maybe it was just the overabundance of cream tones evident in the décor. Either way, the room was bright and immaculate in a way that was almost disconcerting, reminiscent of the padded rooms in old-timey mental hospitals. Your doctor, sensing your distress at a room with no windows, pressed a button by the door and a large section of the wall across from you dematerialized to reveal a windowpane. It was later in the day than you expected - soft rays of light from the Wakandan sunset streamed through, replacing the unnatural, fluorescent light that shone from the high ceilings.

She helped you into a reclining armchair that almost swallowed you whole as you sank into its softness. Across from you, above a large, mahogany desk equipped with a computer and a miniature bookshelf, was a holographic projector almost the size of the entire opposing wall. You would at least be able to entertain yourself for the night.

“Everything, as you probably guessed, is voice-activated. We encourage you to walk as much as possible today, but if you need any help, don’t hesitate to call.”

You nodded your head yes. Although this armchair was comfortable, you just wanted to sink into the four-poster bed in the furthest corner of the room. You quickly dismissed the thought of moving, too physically and emotionally weary to participate in such a grand action.

It was only after the doctor had been gone for almost a half hour that the surrounding silence, normally a friend, began to suffocate you. Too afraid to be alone with your thoughts, you turned on the projector. Maybe watching the news would settle you.

In seconds, N’Jadaka’s smug visage filled the screen, and you yelped, reflexively chucking the controller across the room. So much for being settled. Taking a few short yet deep breaths, you decided the only way to inform yourself would be to listen, no matter how nauseated it made you feel.

Even the newscasters looked a mixture between shock and confusion as they announced the upheaval of the royal family. The Queen Mother and Shuri were now in hiding, a new king sat on the throne since yesterday.

And T’Challa’s body was yet to be found. The voices speaking in Xhosa started to drone on and become more and more muffled - you felt like you were dissociating.

“Turn off.” The projector blinked into a thin line before vanishing, and you sat in silence anew, trying to numb yourself. Ironically, the throb in your belly now seemed louder, and your thoughts unwillingly flitted back to N’Jadaka. You figured he had stabbed you right after stabbing Zuri, but you had been “spared” evidently.

Did he actually regret hurting you? Was calling it a reflex his sorry excuse for an apology?

Before you could scold yourself for ascribing human feelings to that monster of a man, you heard a loud buzz and the doors to your suite buzzed and slid open. Your eyes darted frantically to the entrance, afraid that your thoughts had unwittingly summoned the devil.

But instead of that nightmare, running through the door came Amina, crushing you in an almost desperate embrace. She said nothing, but the warm tears hitting your shoulder made it abundantly clear that she was more than glad you were alive. Your body shook as you tried to hold in your own tears.

“Don’t you ever fucking do that again, no matter what happens.” She croaked, still not letting go.

“You would if it had been you.” You responded. She pulled back and glared at you.

“I’m serious, Nki!”

Okoye loudly cleared her throat from afar, interrupting Amina’s eventual lecture, and Amina straightened up to attention, eyes forward to her. You also looked at her expectantly, confused as to why she had come. Her eyes narrowed as you met them.

“It’s good to see that you are recovering.” She said, coolly. Okoye was naturally sharp-tongued, but the edge in her voice was more vitriol than anything.

“Thank you.” You responded, in the half-questioning tone that revealed your uncertainty with the authenticity of her wish. She smirked, and your stomach turned again. Was she upset she didn’t get the chance to kill you or something?

“ _Your_ king has requested that we come check in on you.” She said, now leaning her back against the wall with her arms crossed. Her spear, ever within arm’s reach, also lay perched against the wall, and you eyed it, wondering exactly how long it would take her to lunge across the room to murder you. She seemed to want to.

But you needed to clarify one thing.

“ _My_ king?” You repeated, sharply.

Nose flaring, Okoye had crossed the space between the two of you in two seconds, spear gripped tightly and at the ready. You could hear Amina hold her breath, silently cursing your big mouth. You felt the blood rush from your face.

“Whatever silly arrangement you two have, don’t believe for a second that I won’t get to the bottom of it.” She spat, only inches away from your face.

_Arrangement?_

The confusion in your face must have reassured her because she relaxed into her usual smirk again.

“Either way, you will not be leaving this room any time soon.” She announced. “King’s orders.”

You turned to Amina in panic. Facial expression vacant, she slowly unwrapped a small parcel, and set two warm containers of rice and tomato stew on the ottoman before you. She placed a hand on your shoulder.

“Make sure you eat,” she said, warmly, and gave you a warm hug before she walked to meet Okoye who still wore an acrid look on her face.

The two of them turned to leave, and you sat, stunned at the prospect of this recovery suite turning into a prison. The walls seemed to close in on you the moment they left.

Okoye stopped right before the door, the bitterness in her heart at losing her very own king too much for her to bear alone.

“I hope missing your father’s burial is worth it.” She said, just loud enough for you to hear, as the doors slid shut.

You snapped.

It was enough for you to spend the rest the night screaming and cursing at the overhead to let you out. You may have thrown yourself at the doors once or twice, trying unsuccessfully to break yourself out, bruising a few ribs in the process. You may have thrown Amina’s labor of love at the white walls, hoping someone would be sent in to clean it and you could seize the opportunity to break yourself out. That red-orange stain, now dried and sour-smelling over the hours of the night, seemed to stare into you just as much as you were forced to stare at it. You cursed yourself for being the worst possible person you could imagine.

At least you could find solace in the fact that you would never be as bad as the jackass who had left you here.

Once you realized your attempts were futile, you decided to curl up on the floor of center of the room. Maybe these were simply theatrics, but you couldn’t stand the idea of waking up well-rested in the fancy bed offered by a murderer. Laying there, curled up with all the nervous energy of a stray cat, you didn’t expect to fall asleep. Yet somehow, you drifted off sometime right before dawn.

It was much like that strange, too realistic yet otherworldly dream, many months ago. But this time, you were walking side by side with your father in the garden, just like you had the last time you argued.

“I’m sorry, Baba. For everything.”

You stared into your shaking hands. “I couldn’t stop it… and I couldn’t even make it to your passage- “ You choked up, for the millionth time. All you did was cry these days.

“You are forgiven, my child. Don’t fret.” Zuri said, his hands gently patting the top of your head. His smile was warmer than it had ever been since. It was heart-wrenching.

“I will make sure he pays for what he did,” you resolved. Zuri let out a burdensome sigh and shook his head.

“Penance for one’s sins is a complicated affair, my dear.”

You woke up abruptly, and found yourself tucked warmly into bed. The room revealed no recollection of your inner turmoil – all books were neatly tucked into place, furniture was in its original position, and the food stain had been scrubbed so cleanly off the wall, you could have sworn it was actually whiter than it had started off. You must have been out like a light.

_Penance for one’s sins is a complicated affair._

You were strangely calm this morning, not the eerie calm of a person who was plotting murder and revolution, but one of someone who had transcended hurt and sorrow. This was Bast’s peace setting in again. You didn’t deserve this kind of peace. You took some time to pray, hoping to invoke her voice, but received nothing.

In just a few moments, the doctor’s voice sounded overhead.

“I hope you are well-rested. The king requests your presence in one hour. Stand by and shortly we will have you prepared accordingly.”


	6. Chapter 6

Erik N’Jadaka Stevens sat patiently, still enough that if it weren’t for the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed deeply, one could have mistaken him for a wax figure. Quiet and calm he appeared, as he sat on the throne of the cousin he had so cleanly deposed. Yet the storm raging within was undeniable. Erik was, for the first time of his life since he had vowed to take revenge on the family that abandoned him, unsure of his next move.

This uncertainty was obviously unrelated to his plan for world domination – that was clear cut. He had already announced his plan to the Border Tribe general, W’Kabi - they would deliver weapons to all parts of the world where his kin were being mistreated. The best part is he wouldn’t even bother taking time out of his day to talk to rebel leaders. A quick drop-off of high-tech tools of destruction without any guidance or restriction would lead to just the type of anarchy he needed for a paradigm shift. True leaders knew how to seize an opportunity, and he would be the orchestrator of it all. He would let the whole world burn and build it up from the ashes to his liking.

Yet however smoothly his mission had gone according to plan, he couldn’t shake how unsettled he was by that single person - a woman, no less. Never for a moment had he ever been moved by anything of a woman, whether it was a pretty face, a voluptuous body, or a bright, cheerful smile. In fact, he often preferred when his obstacles were women, for he found them terribly easy to manipulate. A little kernel of attention here, a small act of kindness there. Add in a smile, and they would bend over backwards for him.

Somehow, this wildly insignificant woman had impressed on him more than anyone as unremarkable as she was should have the power to. Maybe it was the fact that when she gazed into his eyes that first day in the throne room, he had felt the world stand still for just a split second. Despite having easily pushed her aside to carry out his mission, the moment he was left to his own thoughts in his holding cell, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. When she appeared with one of the Dora guards, he quickly realized why.

She was the woman in the dream he had the night he first heard Bast.

Erik had been tidying up the aftermath of one of his last kills before he had planned to execute Klaue, his key to the Wakandan border. Removal of evidence for him had become so routine that he often let his mind wander from the task at hand while he covered his tracks. What would he eat tonight? Did he remember to unload the dishwasher? He had a girl at home who threatened to leave every time he was out late, a pretty but more importantly, loyal woman named Linda. He smirked at the sheer thought of her leaving – all he had to do was lay some strategic pipe and she’d clean his slate, again and again and again…

_Must you continue to thirst for blood like this?_

Erik turned abruptly to survey his surroundings, only to stare into unperturbed darkness. The fact that the soft whisper seemed to have originated from inside his head rather than outside would have unnerved anyone, but the average person wasn’t neatly folding a full-grown human body into a bag to be dissolved in a barrel of acid. After a short pause to tune his ears into any new sounds, Erik swung his load over his shoulder and continued on his way home, deciding whatever he had heard had just been a figment of imagination.

He slipped quietly into bed only a few hours later besides the girlfriend he would later shoot dead at a moment’s notice, now asleep and unquestioning of his whereabouts. He had by necessity never been a sound sleeper but that night he was overcome by a slumber as deep as the grave.

When he awoke, he was somewhere otherworldly to the say the least. As a man who rarely dreamt, he wondered if this qualified as a phantom trip. He wasn’t much of a stoner, but you couldn’t always trust what was in the weed these days.

Off in the distance, he saw a figure comfortably laid against a tree, sitting cross-legged on the grass, her head immersed in a book. Odd.

Before he could call out to her for a clue to wherever the hell he was, a pressure started to build in his ears, as though he were suddenly twenty thousand feet in the air. Then one bodiless voice, the same as the one he had heard during his waking hours, appeared to split into two, and both assaulted his ears at once. In one ear, the same voice was harsh, grating, furious; the other, smooth and sweet.

_He deserves revenge! He has no obligation for mercy! He carries out my will, I have imbued him with the rage he needs!_

_He needs love! He needs compassion! He facilitates his own destruction, let him seek the healing he deserves!_

_He’s powerful and destructive, Bast!_

_He’s suffering, Sekhmet!_

The voices became progressively louder and unintelligible as they argued, until he was brought to his knees, eyes closed, hands clasped over his ears. Soon, he too was screaming in pain as he felt his eardrums tear. Then as he felt a hand gently press on his shoulder, the voices vanished. He looked up to see you smile wide and reassuringly at him. You introduced yourself with your birth name, and he committed it to memory. Y/N.

 _Let her heal your heart,_ Bast said to him. He had awoken fazed, but the thought of someone trying to change him laughable. You wouldn’t be the first woman who tried.

When you finally presented yourself to the new king as composed yet stone-faced as only a person who had begun to accept tremendous loss could, Erik realized how pretentious his thoughts were. You couldn’t care less about fixing him, you were too preoccupied with ensuring he didn’t break you.

Okoye escorted you by the arm into the room, her hand gripping just a little too tight. She released you, bowed to the abomination now ruling the country, and left the room. You just barely heard her scoff. Before the throne you stood catatonically, eyes lowered to the King’s sandals.

“I heard you were causing some trouble last night.” N’Jadaka smirked, the need to dispel the uncomfortable silence underlying his voice. You refused to look him in the eye, and responded only with silence.

“Sit the fuck down.” he demanded, the trickster cadence to his voice now gone. He wouldn’t tolerate that same level of disrespect you’d shown before a second time. You considered a small act of resistance, but were despondent enough that you lacked the energy to struggle against his will. Before the throne, you noticed a low table set up with two plates and a pair of utensils for both. You knelt obediently on the large pillow closest to your side of the table, and N’Jadaka approached from the throne and sat cross-legged opposite from you.

The moment your eyes met, you visualized yourself plunging the fork at your right-hand side deep into his neck. Maybe if you were lucky, you would be able to get the internal jugular, and watch him bleed out. Yet, you banished the image and kept your expression neutral and effaced. Servants quickly ran in and out setting food and drink between the two of you, and you felt one too many curious glances as they delivered dishes. The palace would soon be teeming with yet more fodder for Okoye’s misplaced suspicions. A temple maid consorting with the new king?

“Eat.” N’Jadaka commanded. You hesitated. The last thing you wanted to do was share a meal with your father’s murderer, but before you could start another internal monologue, he grabbed you abruptly by the chin across the table, dragging you to him. You let out a small gasp of surprise as the cutlery on the table clattered but did not shatter or drop.

“I’m not about to repeat myself.” He barked, face only inches apart from yours, essentially repeating himself. As he let go of your face, settling back into his seat with his arms crossed, the skin of your cheeks stung, but fear never set in. Rather, your stomach growled audibly, and your mind drifted to the red stain you had stared at all night. You quietly stuffed a fried dough beignet in your mouth and chased it with a spoonful of beans. Soon your treacherous hunger intensified, and you ate appetitively. You were surprised you could eat given your whole life had fallen apart – but such was the power of that supernatural calm.

N’Jadaka watched you carefully as you scarfed down the meal as though you had never seen food before, he himself abstaining from the meal. When you finally reached for the pot of coffee in the center of the table, he cleared his throat.

“You ready to talk now?”

You looked up to him, arm extended and cocked your head to the side incredulously.

“What do you expect me to say?” You replied, flatly.  _Thanks for feeding me? Thanks for the medical attention? Or the imprisonment, the murder of my father, the overhaul of my country, the list goes on…_

The muscles in N’Jadaka’s neck tensed. He hadn’t expected an answer like that, but he couldn’t deny he set himself up for it. He let out a deep breath, and stretched his bulky arms out across the table. You withdrew again, instinctively, but this time he didn’t reach for you. He rolled his shoulders back again and relaxed back into his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. He sighed again deeply.

“You know, you really got a mouth on you. Like damn, do all y’all Wakandan bitches talk like this?” He sounded more annoyed than angry, yet you looked at him warily, and then to the rest of your surroundings. The servants had long since filed out of the room and you realized the two of you were alone. You became both nervous and impatient. Your stomach was full, your heart was empty, you needed out.

“What do you want from me?” You asked, reticently.

In his mind’s eye, Erik recalled how you had suddenly rushed him at Warrior Falls, and as he turned, his short spear had pierced cleanly into you like a knife into butter. He recalled how you clasped your hands around the spear, and staring straight at him, the whites of your eyes had rolled back into your head, lips mouthing words that seemed less like expletives but primordial curses. His body had frozen still as you collapsed once you had exhausted that last burst of strength, disarmed enough that T’Challa had enough time to place him in a headlock. Rather than hearing his cousin telling him to yield, all surrounding sound had faded and all he heard was Bast give him a warning:  _Either you spare her, or you doom yourself._

He had thought of disposing of your body the same way he did T’Challa, but as he approached you, the words seared themselves repetitively in his head over and over again. Now you sat before him and Erik truly did not have the slightest idea what to do with you. Yet he was too, dare he say it,  _afraid_  to get rid of you.

You were patiently waiting on a response, and the very fact that you expected him to answer to you irked N’Jadaka to no end.

“I’ll ask the questions here, not you. Got that shit?” he said, rising from his seat. As if on cue, the servants rushed back into the room to clear the table.

“Get the fuck out. I’ll summon you again when I feel like it.” He said.

Something compelled you to keep pressing on.

“I understand, and I say this loosely, what your problem was with-“ you watched him tense up again, “the former prince, but what exactly was your vendetta against my father?” You asked insistently, rising to your feet, despite the two Dora who had appeared by your side to escort you away from the King.

The look he gave you was one full of contempt.

“You mean Uncle James?”

_Uncle what?_

N’Jadaka rose to his feet as well, waving his warriors back, and stepped to you again. “You know, that nigga was the last person I was thinking about coming to this place, but the idea of this motherfucker running around having some bitch calling him pops after that shit he pulled.…”

He balled his hands up into fists, but then clasped his hands together, flashing one of his trademark sadistic smiles.

“I don’t want to hear about that nigga again, got it?” He paused to let those words sink in, then continued. “Like for real, if I hear about ‘your father’ again, Imma have you executed. You’ve been getting too many chances from me so far, babygirl.”

This time the mischievous lilt in his voice barely covered the fact that his tone was the most deadly it had been since the first time he spoke to you. He gave you a patronizing pat on the head.

“Now if you calm down and don’t cause any trouble, I’ll find a good use for you.”

And with that, a whole new set of layers were added to your confusion. Little did you know, N’Jadaka was as lost as you were, too.


	7. Chapter 7

The next few days were dually disorienting and stabilizing.

N’Jadaka seemed to have relinquished you from your prison suddenly, and you were reposted to your original chambers. The only difference now is you were perpetually flanked with two Dora. You couldn’t tell if it was his doing or Okoye’s, but you quickly grew used to your every move being watched. You still had no idea what threat you could possibly have posed, but you were begrudgingly grateful for any freedom that you may have.

More importantly, you had adapted to eating a meal or two, face to face in a defiant silence, each day for the past week with that monster. Oddly enough, he respected the silence for the most part, only reacting with the cantankerousness of a child if you ate too little or with too little gusto.

“Bitch, if you try that hunger strike bullshit one more time, I might starve the whole damn nation,” he had threatened once, breaking the silence that usually accompanied your shared meals, his voice even-keeled but with the severity befitting a sovereign ruler. You hated that he seemed perfectly adapted to being the head of an authoritarian regime, yet you suddenly found yourself shoveling food into your mouth. You knew he was serious. With a surreptitious glance up from your plate, you could see a smirk flicker across his lips.

On day 8 of post-release, Amina was the one to summon you from your chamber. It was the first time you had seen her since your release, you realized, and when you heard her voice call out from outside your room before entering, you realized you were elated to see her. You missed her.

Part of N’Jadaka’s odd obsession with your movement was insisting that you not leave the palace in any shape or form. You had not even been able to travel to the temple – not that you would have had the courage to anyway given the most recent events.

“Nkiru, you’ve been requested.” Soft footsteps approached the side of your bed. Although it was approximately six in the evening, you had opted to keep your curtains closed in an attempt to quell a growing migraine. You felt her eyes lower onto your body tightly wrapped in a multitude of blankets. She laid a hand on your still body, and you flipped over to face her.

Although the light was dim and your eyes had yet to adjust, Amina’s hazel eyes somehow seemed darker than usual.

“Are you doing okay?” she murmured. Her voice was soft, her usually strong silhouette seeming to shrink.

“I’m… okay.” You responded. You still had not cried a single tear for your father, your childhood friend had disappeared along with her mother and the rightful king was likely long dead without a proper burial. A tyrant was on the throne, unable for whatever reason to eat his meals alone. Rumors in the lower palace swirled that you were his consort and the General saw you as an accomplice and traitor.

But you were fine. Really.

“Are you?” You asked, unraveling yourself from your cloth sanctuary and sitting cross-legged on the bed. You tugged onto Amina’s arm, inviting her to sit with you, but she remained firmly rooted to the ground, the staff in her left hand resembling a cane for support more than a weapon.

She smiled weakly, nodded affirmation, and led you wordlessly to the throne room.

* * *

N’Jadaka always seemed to test out new ways to disrespect Wakandan tradition each moment he was in power. He had so far disregarded any prayer time to Bast, refused to take a single day trip outside of the palace to meet the new populace he was governing as a new king customarily did, actively ignored any requests for town hall meetings, and rushed the council elders who gave their morning state reports, effectively talking over them. It was clear that his goal was for a military state and nothing else. However, what really was grinding on your nerves today was that he was sitting in  _T’Challa’s_  throne sideways, legs thrown over one armrest and hands behind his head.

The blatant disrespect made your face grow hot with anger. It didn’t help that he also had the nerve to summon you without food to palliate you. You spoiled easily.

“Ay, babygirl, you made it!” he proclaimed with childlike glee. As usual, you wanted to bash his teeth in, but you grit your teeth into a respectful smile.

“Yes?”

“Yes,  _what_?” he snarled, now leaning forward in his chair, fingers curled tightly onto his arm rests.

“Yes, my king.” You all but spat out. He grinned widely and beckoned you to stand closer. As if on cue, the attendants filed out of the room hurriedly, and you, yet again, felt the burn of judgmental eyes boring through your backside.

“I got a job for you, finally.” He shared, brown eyes twinkling in delight. “Build me one of them dope ass suits I saw in lil princess’ lab.”

That was sudden, and you were taken aback by the request. “Me? Of all people?”

“Well, they been telling me that the next best thing to Shuri is you.”

This was both true and false. Although you had taught Shuri at some point, she had long and far surpassed you in intellectual ability. Besides, you were less of a biomechanical engineer and more of a chemist – or alchemist, who could say.

You did not respond, inwardly calculating the risk versus the yield of having time away to tinker in the laboratory, far from the constant surveillance. The sudden agency would allow you some much-needed freedom, but also time to not just think, but work. You had been starved of intellectual stimulation since he had shown up anyway.

It was sufficiently clear that building him a functioning panther suit was an absolute no-no. Regardless of the immense power he now commandeered, without a vibranium-infused suit, he was clearly disadvantaged. It must have been a clear embarrassment for him for this request to have come so much later, given how rapid and meticulous he was about setting his military plans in motion.

Something was odd about this request, however. Shuri had clearly designed more than one suit for her brother in the past year. In fact, her latest one, one that you had teased her relentlessly about due to its gaudy, golden, and more jaguar than panther motif, should still be on display in a corner of the laboratory. Given that Mount Bashenga had been searched from top to bottom after Shuri’s disappearance, it had to have been brought to his attention.

Unless…

Your eyes grew wide with realization but masked it quickly with a low bow.

“I would be honored to.” You said quickly, under your breath. As you looked up, he gave you a quizzical look for a second, then smirked.

“You ain’t as stubborn as usual today. What’d you got planned?” Your heart skipped a beat, but he laughed, and the heavy load in your belly lifted.

“Sike nah. You hungry?”

With a snap of his fingers, the servants came pouring in.

* * *

You walked back to your room belly full, but heart just as full with guilt. However, this time as you walked through the palace corridors, your mind was full too, thoughts racing a mile a minute. For once, you were too distracted to feel bad about being escorted back to your chambers by a Dora whose distaste for you was palpable, second only to the general herself. The same thoughts flitted through your head.

Shuri took the suit with her. Shuri took the suit with her. Shuri took the suit with her.

Shuri has the suit.

Shuri did not run.

She intended to fight.

She intended to fight back with full force.

A week was neither long nor short. She was hatching a plan, and you had to help her. You needed contact with the outside, and buying time while building a useless suit, was the perfect way to figure out how to make that contact, to help her, and to fight back.

Your escort all but shoved you into your room before leaving in a huff, and unbothered, you leapt over to your desk and flipped over the journal you had neglected since the day your father died. A worn, old-fashioned scientific journal, with square-lined paper; it was thick with your ideas, STEM-related or more personal musings, free from access by the pervasive Wakandan cyberspace.

This sudden sense of control over your own fate was exhilarating, and you flipped quickly through the pages to your notes on herb-infused fabric. Oh, you would build this asshole a suit all right.

However, your excitement faded to curiosity as a small piece of paper slipped out and fell to the ground. Its ragged edges suggested that it had been torn off another page in your notebook in a hurry before being scribbled on, folded up and shoved back into your book. Mildly concerned, you opened it up slowly, hoping that it wasn’t what you thought it was.

But it was.

A secret message in Amina’s familiar, yet horrendous, scrawl.

_I’m sorry. I had to run._


	8. Chapter 8

“This has to be some kind of joke,” you whispered aloud weakly, hands shaking.

But just in case it wasn’t, you tore the piece of paper in half, in fourths, in eighths, in sixteenths, tearing and ripping the note into confetti while hot tears began to well into your eyes. Once you had disposed of the evidence, flushing it down the toilet, you slipped out of your room and headed straight to the temple.

* * *

 

You had thankfully managed to escape detection from any of the palace guards and made it to the temple under cover of the sunset. Although you had wrapped yourself with a shawl, hoping to avoid notice, you had the inkling that you were no longer being surveilled anyway. Pushing through a split second of hesitation, you made your way into the temple, hoping you would run into one person in particular.

Asha.

She sat quietly in a far corner, if you could imagine any corners in the enormous hut’s round architecture, pulverizing a fine red powder reminiscent of the immersion sands on a grinding stone.

“Asha!” you called over to her and as if snapped out of a trance, she looked up to you in shock. Although it was late, you knew she often popped in late at night to prepare salves and poultices for the next morning, being the night owl that she was.

“Nkiru?!” She whispered loudly, looking around frantically to clear the room of any observers. Ignoring her comment, you ran into her arms, almost toppling her petite, plump self over. Patting you on the shoulder, she whispered, “Are you even allowed to be here?””

You pulled back from her and shook your head.

“Nki, I’m not trying to be executed!” she said, pulling you with her behind beaded curtains into the nearest mediation room for privacy. “You’re lucky it’s late and no one’s probably here…”

Now that you had re-steadied yourself, you dropped into a seating position on the dirt floor and Asha sat across from you, giving you a wary look.

“I haven’t seen or heard for you in a week. What’s going on?”

“Amina’s gone,” you said, flatly, and Asha let out an audible gasp.

“There’s no way.”

“She left a note.”

“She would never!” Asha said, jumping to her feet. “She’s way too responsible, and- “

She trailed off as the two of you silently acknowledged that the punishment for a Dora deserting was a fate worse than death.

What you really wanted to know was why. Amina was never a rash decision-maker. She was good at mediating uncomfortable situations and while her principles were strong, she was never ideological. Unlike you, she wouldn’t leave just because she did not agree with whoever was in authority.

“How far do you think she is by now?” Asha inquired in a low voice. Thankfully, the precaution was unnecessary, given that the temple was a technology-free zone, so they were safe to speak freely as long as no actual person was within earshot.

Given that Amina had probably left right after she had been escorting you, and you had been with  _him_ for about an hour or so, she was probably just out of the palace.

But your girl could  _haul ass_.

“I have no idea,” you responded. You got up to your feet and stepped out of the meditation room, now sufficiently aware of your surroundings for the heavy stench of incense to become nauseating. Asha followed you out, with a heavy sigh.

“Had she been acting strange?” You questioned, following brick steps into the Herb Garden, hoping that the calming, muted glow of the lavender flowers could settle you. Before Asha could answer, you stopped in your tracks. All that stretched before you were the stale smell of charred soil and stone, and gritting your teeth, you stared into the desolate remains of what was once a sacred plant nursery.

 _He did not…_ Kneeling, you dug your hands through a handful of packed, dry earth and let it run through your fingers. It seemed as though life as you knew it would continue to disintegrate around you.

“The new king ordered us to burn everything.” Asha mumbled, apologetically. You nodded your head quietly, staring dejectedly at the packed, dead earth.

“And no, the last time Amina came by… she was worried about you, but there were never any signs…” she continued. You rose again and nodded acquiescently at her.

“I think I should go.”

Asha squeezed your hands and smiled weakly.

Before you made it out the door, she called out to you once more.

“Papa Zuri is resting with his ancestors. We buried him well.”

Back turned to her, you murmured a word of thanks, grateful that your voice was just loud enough to hide the waver in your voice.

* * *

 

Without Shuri, the laboratory in Mount Bashenga had lost not only the loud gqom music coming from the overhead speakers, but also the hustle, bustle and drive that defined the Wakandan Design Group. After a night of restless sleep, now certain that N’Jadaka had relaxed the security detail he had placed on you, you had retired to Shuri’s old office, taking particular care to avoid any conversation with the other workers. First, you confirmed that the golden necklace had disappeared, and then brought out your journal to start drafting a design.

You flipped the pages to the following report:

> **_EyoKwindla_ ** **_10, Shemu_**
> 
> _(March 10, Harvesting Season)_
> 
> _Data:_
> 
> **Ezi (998 days, M)**
> 
> Vitality improved >> 8.3h spent in enriched environment (+33.8% from 6.2h)
> 
> Wt 23g, Avg HR 543, Avg RR 123, Avg Temp 37.2C
> 
> **Epi (1003 days, F)**
> 
> Vitality improved >> 8.5h spent in enriched environment (+10.3% from 7.7h)
> 
> Wt 18g, Avg HR 483, Avg RR 158, Avg Temp 37.3C
> 
> **Indla (1002 days, F)**
> 
> Vitality improved >> 9.1h spent in enriched environment (+40.0% from 6.5h)
> 
> Wt 18.5g, Avg HR 582, Avg RR 199, Avg Temp 37.2C
> 
> _Conclusions to date:_
> 
> \- Mice appear to have made statistically significant gains in intelligence, with increased occupation of enriched habitat
> 
> \- Mice appear to be recovering functionally from intrauterine growth restriction, cerebral palsy and congenital heart defects
> 
> \- Mice have demonstrated improved longevity, outliving the standard lifespan of 2 years

This journal entry, describing a tiny cohort of three mice, summarized one of your most promising experiments with heart-shaped herb extract. Zuri’s discovery and subsequent destruction of your coveted rodents had spurned your active rejection of your country’s cultural values.

While Wakanda was incomparably medically superior to the rest of the world, its warrior-centric culture favored the naturally strong and those born gifted, leaving those who had been born with congenital defects, absence of organs, or susceptibility to progressive disability to either facilitate their lives with technology (if they could afford it) or perish. All medicine centered on response to trauma or illness. To make matters worse, a cultural taboo against prosthetics and organ implants or otherwise stagnated its society, producing health inequity often hidden to the palace dwellers and other elites.

This unfairness could have easily been solved by greater access to extract from the heart-shaped herb, and your small cohort proved it!

It didn’t matter anyway. The garden was gone, and so was that plan. You began to draw.

Gaze focused on the white canvas, a flash of white light blinded you as though the room’s overhead illuminators had silently shorted and shattered. An all-encompassing, enveloping darkness filled your vision, but rather than a feeling of dread, you felt lightweight, even airy.

Almost as suddenly as you had fallen into the sensation, you came out of it. You awoke, listless, drawing air into your lungs rapidly and desperately, as though you had just emerged from water. You had gripped your pen so tightly that it had shattered, and blotches of dark ink now decorated your palms and had dropped onto your canvas.

_Did I just seize?_

Now before you, lay a sketch of two jungle cats locked in fierce battle, one black as night and the other spotted and golden. While the dark animal seemed to have the advantage, teeth sinking into its opponent’s neck, the fierceness in the other cat’s snarl suggested that it was far from down for the count. In the backdrop, humans dressed in what appeared like ancient garments with primitive weapons appear to also be engaging in battle.

In the center, a small cat watched from the distance, piercing violet eyes appearing to gaze directly in your soul. For a split second, you were disconcerted.

But then an uncharacteristic fury began to fill your soul, and in a flurry of rage, you began to throw everything you could find. Books, beakers, pens, tools, anything within reach. Once you had tired yourself out, you slumped to the floor, crying profusely.

You couldn’t do this anymore.

You had no idea what Bast wanted from you, but now she was playing tricks on you.

Or you were losing your mind, and this was your descent into madness. After all, somehow you had blacked out and drawn something far outside of your natural artistic ability with pops of vibrant color despite only having a black ink pen.  

It had to be the latter. You wanted to be committed and have it over with. Refusing to take the time to decipher your artwork, you curled up in fetal position and wept.

It was in this dramatic scene of disorder and depression that N’Jadaka barged into your office with two guards in tow.

“The fuck going on with you?” His voice abrasive as usual, you watched him look about the room with an expression in between disgust and genuine confusion. Wide-stanced with arms crossed and eyes narrowed, it was clear that he was more annoyed by you than concerned. Of course, you didn’t answer him. At this point, any violence he exacted against you would feel like mercy compared to the anguish you were feeling at this point.

“You ain’t heard what I just said?”

You continued to stare at the floor.

Irritated, he yanked you roughly by the arm to your feet, keeping his grip on your forearm tight enough that you winced in pain but did not cry out. His two guards, visibly tense, cleared the way for him to drag you out.

“Clean that shit up.” He ordered, without looking back, as the doors slid shut behind the two of you.

* * *

 

N’Jadaka was either a terribly fast walker or was prepared to do something drastic. Although your long legs afforded you a pretty long stride, you really were struggling to keep up, giving the effect of resisting when you truly were not. A few times, you stumbled, tripping over your own feet, and he didn’t bother to slow down, towing you along like a child’s rag doll. A few times, you were sure he would pull your arm right out of its socket, if not tear your rotator cuff. Yet, you wouldn’t give the satisfaction of kicking or screaming through the palace like some trapped animal.

So you decided to bear it.

A few minutes into your unwilling trek, his hold on you had gradually loosened and his pace slowed enough that you could now walk upright at a normal pace, even though he never let go of your arm. A few steps behind him, you could only see the back of his head, as he never once turned to look at you and never spoke a word. Yet somehow, you got the sense that he wasn’t actually angry.

You had the fleeting thought that for a murderer, his hands were remarkably warm and soft.

Finally, you stopped at a secured entrance. Your eyes widened as you realized where you were.

These were the King’s own chambers.

Your feet froze in place, and in response, N’Jadaka pressed his hand against your back, and pushed you into the room wordlessly. Your heart began to pound in your chest, and the energy was slowly starting to drain out of your legs. The doors slid shut with a soft thud, and your stomach did a backflip in time with the sound.

You had said you didn’t care what he did to you, but this was different!

N’Jadaka moved past you and while walking towards a heavily adorned California king-sized bed, began to disrobe.

You started to hyperventilate.

The scars along his back seemed every bit as alive as he was, his broad, bare back expanding and contracting with every slow, deep breath. He tilted his head back, staring at the high ceiling for a moment, before he turned around to sit on the edge of his bed. He kicked the sandals off his feet and leaned back onto the bed onto his forearms. The light streaming in from his drawn curtains gave his brown eyes an amber glow, and again, you recalled the beautiful figure in that one seminal vision. He looked at you, but he was neither smirking, nor angry – just expressionless.

Somehow on him that look was terrifying.

He motioned for you to move closer, but you couldn’t move from that spot, paralyzed in fear.

Exasperated, he sat up and rested his elbows onto his knees.

“You making me a suit, right?” he asked with a tired sigh. “You gonna take these measurements or what?”


	9. Chapter 9

Erik was never normally chatty, but even he had to admit that he was slightly unnerved by the oppressive silence shrouding him and the young woman gently unraveling a measuring cord along the length of his shoulders.

For someone in his particular line of work, quiet was a gift and solitude was both blessed and requisite. Erik rarely craved company, save for those few nights where yearnings of the flesh threatened his mental clarity. He only partook in conversation where he commanded the dialogue - words were weapons, after all. His entire life had been derailed over an exchange of words.

However, at this very moment, the new king wanted nothing more than for this woman to say a word to him.

His auditory senses heightened, he took note of her steady, shallow exhales. She was clearly still afraid of him, even if she tried to feign otherwise. He could practically feel her heart pounding in her chest, thumping so hard he could feel the pulse ever so faintly in her fingertips.

The skin of her hands was surprisingly rougher than he expected, sparking a curiosity as to how hard she worked. She wasn’t exactly a servant, after all. In fact, he wasn’t exactly clear what a temple priestess did apart from pray all the time.

 _Fast?_  That ass was entirely too fat for regular fasting.

 _Burn incense?_  Now that she was only inches apart from him, an ever-so-slight scent of sandalwood and serenity wafted from her skin. Perhaps.

 _Tend the garden?_  Well… not anymore.

Then he recalled that she was also a scientist – an engineer, not unlike him. She surely had the stubbornness befitting one.

Stubborn and strange. She revealed a confusing mixture of obvious fear and complete disregard for him as an authority. Had he broken her enough to affect her sense of self-preservation? Was she just stupid? Or was it something else entirely?

His mind flashed back to her assault at Warrior Falls. Those eyes…

“P-please stand up. I would like to measure your waist,” you spoke up, softly.

Erik’s mind rarely wandered, and the fact that it had done so regarding you alarmed him. He rose to his feet without a word, locking eyes with you in a dominating gaze.

You were relatively tall for a woman, but he was taller. Refusing to look into his eyes, you coiled the cord around his waist, your face growing warm as you accidentally grazed his abdomen with your fingertips. You internally berated yourself for blushing like some idiot schoolgirl. You hoped you would never be this close again, unless it were to slash through his internal organs.

“Nkiru.” You didn’t like the way your name sounded in his voice.

Your stomach lurched as you let the flimsy tool fall from around his waist to the ground. What had you done now?

“You a witch or something?”

Bewildered, you took a couple of automatic steps back and studied his expression. You were shocked to see that there was no flicker of that rude smirk, no sign of jest. He was completely and utterly serious.

“Excuse me?” You bent down to pick the measuring cord off the ground to guard your facial expression, but he continued his line of questioning.

“Can you see things? Like a medium or something?”

What kind of nonsense…

“No,” you said, curtly. “Could you hold out your right arm, please?” You muttered, hoping he wouldn’t press the conversation further.

Instead, he ripped the instrument out of your hands, rolled it into a ball, and tossed it behind him.

“You and I know damn well you don’t need to be measuring shit.”

He was right. This was a complete farce given that Shuri’s suit technology molded to its wearer. Somehow it angered you that he had humored you humoring him.

You clasped your hands in front of you to prevent from balling them into fists, indignation rising within.

“What can I do for you then… my King?” You seethed through a fabricated smile.

“Answer the damn question.” He replied, now reclining into his bed once more in his signature power pose, legs crossed. The definition of arrogance.

“I already said no.”

“No spirits?”

You opened your mouth to say no, but before the denial could escape your lips, you were overcome with the sensation of a ten-pound weight being dropped inside your throat. Rapidly running out of air, you collapsed to your knees, clawing at your throat in a wild panic.

_TELL THE TRUTH!_

Almost immediately you were drenched in a cold sweat, your gaze frenzied. This astringent, booming voice now searing through your head wasn’t Bast!

And how would you speak when you couldn’t breathe?

N’Jadaka was now crouched before you, his eyes unable to conceal the slightest bit of concern – or rather, confusion. Was he causing this? You couldn’t tell, but you were certain if this persisted for the next twenty seconds you would asphyxiate.

_Speak or perish._

“Y-YES!!” you sputtered, eyes warm with tears. You heaved dryly, doubling over so carelessly you slammed into N’Jadaka’s hard chest. Somehow, he didn’t topple over.

“I-I don’t see them! But I…” you let out an involuntary hiccup, your diaphragm getting re-accustomed to air. “S-She or they?! … I hear Bast! And these strange things keep happening and - “ You gasped for air forcefully, your forehead still pressed into his torso.

“A-and… and it’s all surrounding you! You evil bastard, you started this nonsense and-“ You continued to blubber incomprehensibly.

N’Jadaka remained as still as a statue. Your sobs filled the air for a few more moments, your body pressed into his, and you soon remembered where you were and sobered up.

You leaned back onto your heels, wiping away your tears and rubbing your neck. A small portion of the lush burgundy carpet before N’Jadaka was now wet with your tears. His gaze was penetrating, and you felt almost naked, your sense of vulnerability was so great.

“Will that happen again?” he said, gravely.

You shook your head no.

“Good. I don’t wanna see no more of that crying shit.” He sighed and got to his feet again, and to both your surprise and embarrassment extended a hand to you.

You didn’t take it.

His nostrils flared, but he instead sat down cross-legged on the carpet in front of you.

“What has Bast said about me?”

 _This man could be a great leader, but his heart is filled with hatred and contempt._ That was what she had said. You were afraid to lie again, but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a compliment.

“She said you had a heart filled with hatred and contempt.”

N’Jadaka flinched almost imperceptibly, as if he had been physically attacked. Then he smirked.

“If you knew where I’ve been, you’d know why.” He said.

There was never an excuse for being such a murderous, pompous bastard, you thought. What could possibly explain the monster he had become?

You shook your head. He smiled again, his grin this time tainted with a hint of sadness.

“Let me tell you a story about a kid who grew up in Oakland.”


	10. Chapter 10

Did you really want to hear this tyrant’s sob story?

It didn’t matter how you answered that question – there was an absolute need to hear him that sprang from somewhere deep within. In mere moments, you were consumed wholly by the hellish childhood that unfolded unsteadily before you. Erik – his American name was Erik Stevens – spoke clumsily and nonlinearly, sorting through the events of his life as though they were an endless tangled mess of cables.

It was an unnatural retelling of his life up to this point in time. When he had first started speaking, his tone was as flippant as usual as he described growing up as a child like any other believing in “fairy tales” of a fantastical land, Wakanda, imparted to him by his father. He paused suddenly and briefly, undoubtedly wondering if it was worth divulging this much personal information, but then something else seemed to seize control of his voice. He opened his mouth and words now seemed to tumble out, shakily, far from his own volition. His tone grew from confused to angry and finally evolved into a calmness that sharply contrasted the fiery confidence he always exuded.

What was even more unnatural was that some of the words N’Jadaka spoke would trigger memories in you that were not your own. Through his eyes, you saw his father in health, trying to instill a sense of self-confidence and pride in his son, teaching him where he came from. Through his eyes, you saw his father slain, and you knelt over a lifeless figure many times larger than the then-preadolescent N’Jadaka. The blood splattered in and around the deep claw wounds in his chest had already begun to dry or congeal, betraying the many hours he had lain there, all alone in the center of a small, dimly lit apartment. Vibranium claws glistened, protruding from his chest.

What kind of evil person leaves a child to bury his father and fend for himself?

Through young Erik’s person, a hastily packed suitcase slung over his shoulders, you knocked and knocked on a familiar apartment door only to find that ‘Uncle James’ who lived down the street seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth. Little did young Erik know that ‘Uncle James’ had long returned to Wakanda, and taken charge of another child, yourself, as though he had not abandoned another in dire need.

You watched him navigate the horrors of the foster care system, a preteen committing his first homicide while defending himself from a sexual predator who also was deemed the man of the house. As he progressed through adolescence, you felt the silent, caustic rage that emerged from his constant abandonment and disregard.

He graduated from university with honors despite growing up disenfranchised. He joined the military immediately. He flew through the ranks. He murdered, lied, stole, cheated and manipulated others his entire adult life. He threw out any hope of a normal life for the sake of wrath. He worked with international criminals, including one well-known to Wakanda, Ulysses Klaue, in order to get access to what he needed. Revenge.

You saw him keep score on his body, life after life after life.

You had seen enough. You shook your head as though to rid yourself of any further images. Had you been in a trance? At some point, your fingers had curled gently around his wrist. Withdrawing your hand rapidly, you stood up shakily, head still spinning.

N’Jadaka stared at you incredulously.

“You didn’t just hear what I said. You saw it.” He said this in a low whisper. His statement didn’t quite sound accusatory.

You didn’t respond, but your eyes began to glisten. It was enough for him to know for sure.

“Shit!” This time he bellowed, and you reflexively covered your ears, cowering as he seemed to fly towards you in a flurry of anger. For a split second, you wondered if you would become another raised mark on his skin.

“You fucking-!“ You closed your eyes, waiting for the blow. When it never came, you opened them to see him towering over you, hands clenched into fists. He glowered at you with eyes now tinged blood-red, his face hot; he seemed to literally be giving off steam and you could almost feel it off his skin, he was so far into your personal space.

“That shit was private. Don’t you  _ever_  fucking do whatever you just did again.” He spat, his face merely millimeters from yours. His intimidating glare lingered just a few seconds before he turned his back on you.

“Get the fuck out.” He said, without looking back. You recognized that this was a small act of mercy. If he had to take another look at you, he would change his mind and snap you like a twig. On that note, you took no time to gather yourself and skittered over to the door. You had entirely too much information to mull over the rest of the day.

But before you left him to his own, you stopped at the doorway. For the first time since he had arrived, you had garnered a tiny kernel of sympathy for him. Mustering the courage to speak, you faced his direction one more time.

“They were wrong to do that to you.” You croaked softly. You watched the muscles of his back tense up in response, but he did not respond. Your words hanging in the air just a little longer, you promptly turned and left.

 _He was and is still wrong to be who he is now, but they were wrong too,_ you thought, letting the door slam shut behind you.

–

It was not as though you hadn’t expected N’Jadaka to be above holding grudges – this was a man who was harboring anger against an entire country, after all - but  _this_  was excessive.

“So you really will not let me leave this room?”

The Dora standing in front of your doorway, facing outward, turned her neck to you and shook her head. She was clearly enjoying this, as indicated by the mischievous smirk that crossed her face.

Your stomach growled audibly, and you let out a defeated sigh. You had been confined to this room from the moment you woke up this morning at sunrise, and it was now approaching mid-afternoon. The guard turned on her heels suddenly as you attempted to close your door, almost startling you. She was at least 6 and a half feet tall and had to almost bend over to whisper to you.

“What did you say to him anyway? We’re all wondering.”

“Nothing.” Of course you lied. However, you weren’t sure if it was for your sake or for his.

She scrunched up her inappropriately cherub-like face in disappointment.

“That’s no fun,” she grumbled, crossing her arms as she returned to her post. You narrowed your eyes slightly in irritation, but quickly forgave her. Her earnestness could be useful. There was something about the softness of her voice that earned some trust. You decided not to lose this opportunity to ask about Amina. To your dismay, she frowned and kept mum, turning away from you.

You decided not to press - at least for now.

Instead, you retired back to your desk. Just from her facial expressions, you had gleaned enough important information. They  _had_ been alerted to her disappearance, but she did not appear to have been captured… yet.

Sitting at your desk, you used an AV Bead from your Kimoyo bracelet to access the internet. Through the grapevine, you had heard rumors that N’Jadaka was preparing to impose some censors to the network in a couple of weeks to limit the possibility of insurgency. Prideful as he was, he was tremendously aware that in the hearts of his citizens, he was only secondary to his much-preferred cousin and decided to block any discussion on the latter through the networks.

Today, you were shocked to see a trending, flashing headline that suggested the deployment of vibranium weapons to the Western world was happening in just a few hours.

_Are you fucking kidding me?_

Accessing the link brought you to a giant countdown timer with mixed commentary on the subject:

_\- how can this man just appear like this and make us meddle in things that have never concerned us?_

_\- Finally someone understands that if we do not show ourselves to the world, they will feel like they have discovered us_

_\- this man is very unstable. idiot ilali!!_

_\- ^^ Tchaiii, my friend. Have you not heard that he has his people patrolling day and night? I beg, if you want to survive until sunrise please hold your fingers._

All of a sudden, you heard a muffled cry and a loud thud outside your door. Startled, you immediately went offline, almost dropping your beads. You faced the door with wide eyes. That had sounded too much like incapacitation.

Outside the door was a familiar voice.

“Nki, it’s me!”

It couldn’t be.

You ran out the door, crashing into Shuri, and the two of you both laughed and cried. Amina stood beside the two of you, the unfortunate young lady who guarded your door now slung over her shoulders, entirely unconscious.

Before you could ask any questions, Shuri thrust a Kimoyo card into your hands.

“My brother is alive and we’re about to bring this entire mess down. Please take this to my lab. If you see a mediocre-looking American, he knows the rest of the plan.”

Confused and overwhelmed with joy, all you could do was laugh.

“I’m serious, just make sure he stays out of trouble,” she insisted, already jogging away backwards. “I have to go!”

You nodded as she ran off, and then looked over to Amina, who thankfully looked well albeit a little tired.

She gave a small smile back at you, adjusting the human weight on her shoulders. Through her eyes, she gave you a promise to return and explain.

“Be careful,” she warned, motherly as always. Then she ran off as well.


End file.
